His hands upon the counter, Warburton stared at the door by which
first Rosamund, then Bertha Cross, had disappeared. His nerves were
a-tremble; his eyes were hot. Of a sudden he felt himself shaken
with irresistible mirth; from the diaphragm it mounted to his
throat, and only by a great effort did he save himself from
exploding in laughter. The orgasm possessed him for several minutes.
It was followed by a sense of light-heartedness, which set him
walking about, rubbing his hands together, and humming tunes.

At last the burden had fallen from him; the foolish secret was blown
abroad; once more he could look the world in the face, bidding it
think of him what it would.

They were talking now--the two girls, discussing their strange
discovery. When he saw Rosamund this evening--of course he would
see her, as she had promised--her surprise would already have lost
its poignancy; he had but to tell the story of his disaster, of his
struggles, and then to announce the coming moment of rescue. No
chance could have been happier than this which betrayed him to these
two at the same time; for Bertha Cross's good sense would be the
best possible corrective of any shock her more sensitive companion
might have received. Bertha Cross's good sense--that was how he
thought of her, without touch of emotion; whilst on Rosamund his
imagination dwelt with exultant fervour. He saw himself as he would
appear in her eyes when she knew all--noble, heroic. What he had
done was a fine thing, beyond the reach of ordinary self-regarding
mortals, and who more capable than Rosamund of appreciating such
courage? After all, fate was kind. In the byways of London it had
wrought for him a structure of romance, and amid mean pursuits it
exalted him to an ideal of love.

And as he thus dreamt, and smiled and gloried--very much like an
aproned Malvolio--the hours went quickly by. He found himself near
Albert Bridge, pacing this way and that, expecting at every moment
the appearance of the slim figure clad in grey. The sun set; the
blind of Rosamund's sitting-room showed that there was lamplight
within; and at ten o'clock Warburton still hung about the square,
hoping--against his reason--that she might come forth. He went
home, and wrote to her.

In a score of ways he explained to himself her holding aloof. It was
vexation at his not having confided in her; it was a desire to
reflect before seeing him again; it was--and so on, all through
the night, which brought him never a wink of sleep. Next morning, he
did not go to the shop; it would have been impossible to stand at
the counter for ten minutes, he sent a note to Allchin, saying that
he was detained by private affairs, then set off for a day-long walk
in the country, to kill time until the coming of Rosamund's reply.
On his return in the afternoon, he found it awaiting him.

An hour later he was in Oakley Crescent. He stood looking at the
house for a moment, then approached, and knocked at the door. He
asked if Miss Elvan was at home.

"She's gone away," was the reply of the landlady, who spoke
distantly, her face a respectable blank.

"It's somewhere abroad, sir--in France, I think. She has a sister
there."

This was at five o'clock or so. Of what happened during the next
four hours, Will had never a very distinct recollection. Beyond
doubt, he called at the shop, and spoke with Allchin; beyond doubt,
also, he went to his lodgings and packed a travelling bag. Which of
his movements were performed in cabs, which on foot, he could scarce
have decided, had he reflected on the matter during the night that
followed. That night was passed in the train, on a steamboat, then
again on the railway And before sunrise he was in Paris.

At the railway refreshment-room, he had breakfast, eating with some
appetite; then he drove to the terminus of another line. The streets
of Paris, dim vistas under a rosy dawn, had no reality for his eyes;
the figures flitting here and there, the voices speaking a foreign
tongue, made part of a phantasm in which he himself moved no less
fantastically. He was in Paris; yet how could that be? He would wake
up, and find himself at his lodgings, and get up to go to business
in Fulham Road; but the dream bore him on. Now he had taken another
ticket. His bag was being registered--for St. Jean de Luz. A long
journey lay before him. He yawned violently, half remembering that
he had passed two nights without sleep. Then he found himself seated
in a corner of the railway carriage, an unknown landscape slipping
away before his eyes.

Now for the first time did he seem to be really aware of what he was
doing. Rosamund had taken flight to the Pyrenees, and he was in hot
pursuit. He grew exhilarated in the thought of his virile energy. If
the glimpse of him aproned and behind a counter had been too great a
shock for Rosamund's romantic nature, this vigorous action would
more than redeem his manhood in her sight. "Yes, I am a grocer; I
have lived for a couple of years by selling tea and sugar--not to
speak of treacle; but none the less I am the man you drew on to love
you. Grocer though I be, I come to claim you!" Thus would he speak
and how could the reply be doubtful? In such a situation, all
depends on the man's strength and passionate resolve. Rosamund
should be his; he swore it in his heart. She should take him as he
was, grocer's shop and all; not until her troth was pledged would he
make known to her the prospect of better things. The emotions of the
primitive lover had told upon him. She thought to escape him, by
flight across Europe? But what if the flight were meant as a test of
his worthiness? He seized upon the idea, and rejoiced in it.
Rosamund might well have conceived this method of justifying both
him and herself. "If he loves me as I would be loved, let him dare
to follow!"

To-morrow morning he would stand before her, grocerdom a thousand
miles away. They would walk together, as when they were among the
Alps. Why, even then, had his heart prompted, had honour permitted,
he could have won her. He believed now, what at the time he had
refused to admit, that Franks' moment of jealous anger was not
without its justification. Again they would meet among the
mountains, and the shop in Fulham Road would be seen as at the wrong
end of a telescope--its due proportions. They would return
together to England, and at once be married. As for the grocery
business--

He paid little heed to the country through which he was passing. He
flung himself on to the dark platform, and tottered drunkenly in
search of the exit. Billet? Why, yes, he had a billet somewhere.
Hotel? Yes, yes, the hotel,--no matter which. It took some minutes
before his brain could grasp the idea that his luggage cheque was
wanted; he had forgotten that he had any luggage at all. Ultimately,
he was thrust into some sort of a vehicle, which set him down at the
hotel door. Food? Good Heavens, no; but something to drink, and a
bed to tumble into--quick.

He stood in a bedroom, holding in his hand a glass of he knew not
what beverage. Before him was a waiter, to whom--very much to his
own surprise--he discoursed fluently in French, or something meant
for that tongue. That it was more than sixty hours since he had
slept; that he had started from London at a moment's notice; that
the Channel had been very rough for the time of the year; that he
had never been in this part of France before, and hoped to see a
good deal of the Pyrenees, perhaps to have a run into Spain; that
first of all he wanted to find the abode of an English lady named
Mrs. Cap--Cop--he couldn't think of the name, but he had written
it down in his pocket-book.

The door closed; the waiter was gone; but Warburton still talked
French.